That OutKast song is playing again.

It’s been an hour or so since Madeline left. I’ve been doing very little—okay, nothing—but sit here silently since then.

And Charles has taken notice.

“What’s wrong, Ethan? This song doesn’t get your fuckin’ blood pumping?”

“Not tonight, my friend. It’s a bit too happy for me right now.”

“Interesting. You see this as a happy song?”

“It sounds happy to me.”

“I see.”

Charles already has a shot glass set up. As I’ve said, I think the bartenders here are psychic—although, my mood is probably not very hard to read tonight.

Charles fills the shot glass with bourbon. “Doctor’s orders,” he instructs.

I take the shot.

“This song sounds happy and dance-y to me, Charles. Why do you think it’s not?”

“Oh, you can dance to it. All I’m saying is that it’s not as happy as it sounds.”

“You might need to pour me another shot after that sentence.”

Charles does just that, and I take it down.

“I mean the lyrics aren’t what I’d call happy.”

“I don’t know, Charles. Like this part right here...”

“You mean when he’s talking about being very cold?”

“That’s not exactly how it goes...”

“Well, this bar doesn’t have the licensing for me to recite lyrics, since that’s technically a performance.”

“So...very cold. It doesn’t sound sad to me.”

“It doesn’t?” Charles pours me a third shot.

“I’m going to save that one for later, Charles. If you don’t mind...”

“Hey, we’re open till four.”

I look at the shot and sigh. Going back to my apartment, alone, holds zero fucking appeal for me.

“I know it’s a busy Saturday, but I might just stay until you close tonight...or pretty late, anyway.”

“You can fucking stay after we close if you want. I think you should read the lyrics to Hey Ya sometime, though. And think about them.”

Fuck it—I pour the shot down my throat.

“I might just do that, Charles. Stay after close, that is. I’m not doing any fucking homework, though.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Could I get another one of those stouts? Just put it on my tab.”

“It’s on the fucking house tonight, Ethan.”

I shake my head.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Hey, I have no idea what’s going on. But, I know that when shit hurts, it really fucking hurts. That’s the universal truth.”

My phone, sitting on the bar, starts vibrating.

“The universal truth, eh?”

“Pick up your phone. I’ll get you that stout.”

Charles wanders off, but I do as he says. I pick my phone up off the bar, but I’m too late to answer the missed call from Ryan.

It’s Saturday night, if it weren’t obvious enough from the noise and density of the crowd forming around the bar.

Saturday nights, in recent months, bring an inevitable call from Ryan.

It doesn’t help that a lot of our old crew have moved out of the area.

Or have gotten married.

But, for the most part, it’s the two of us who are still out here every fucking weekend—starting at Lush Republic then moving on to other bars, other clubs.

And fuck, I’ve fallen pretty far out of the game myself lately. These days, even in the middle of the fucking weekend, I’m often working.

Or, for a couple perfect Saturdays, seeing Maddie.

My regretful sigh must be louder than I thought, because Charles takes it as a cue to deliver both my beer and another shot.

I start with the shot. It helps quell a bit of the nausea I’m feeling.

Yes, I’m disgusted with myself for somehow fucking up two chances with the most incredible woman I’ll likely ever meet.

This time, it was quite fucking definitive, too—there’s no coming back from my screw up tonight.

But that’s just it: there’s no coming back, so what are my options?

There’s no going back to my previous existence of the hedge fund manager down the hall, because soon, there’s not even going to be a fucking hall.

There’s a break in the music—which also interrupts my thought process.

I can really hear the Saturday crowd growing behind me, though. It sounds like there’s a ton of fucking people here already.

When Charles’ iPod kicks back on, I take another sip of beer and jump back into weighing my choices.

Even if I can’t be the hedge fund manager down that particular hall anymore, I still have the option of finding another hedge fund, with another office in another hall.

The city had plenty of all that shit—but the idea of just jumping to another fund doesn’t exactly fucking fill me with enthusiasm.

And if I can’t muster the motivation for that, starting my own hedge fund is probably out of the fucking question.

Fuck, I’m getting tired just thinking about it.

And somehow, Charles senses this. He zooms over to pour me another shot before zooming back to his mounting tidal wave of customers.

“Is this helping me think, you think?”

Charles is too far away to hear me, so I just take the fucking shot.

So, Basel fucking Switzerland.

That’s my other option.

I could’ve avoided all this by rejecting this option earlier, but it ain’t earlier anymore.

This is now—and now, it might be my best bet.

I fucking hate that it is, but…

Another little tremor of nausea starts to creep its way in, so I take another sip of stout to keep it at bay.

Charles’ iPod is playing some old-school hip hop, the type of stuff that came out before most of the patrons here were even born.

Fuck, I’m not old enough to be feeling old.

But I am old enough to at least try to make the right decision, even if it’s a decision I never wanted to make.

Basel fucking Switzerland.

I could go there for two years, and I’ll never have to deal with any of that shit again. If I need to channel my workaholic tendencies into something after I retire, I guess I could learn to fucking paint or something.

Whatever hobby I decide, I’ll have a big head start on most of the other retirees. With thirty years of practice, I might get decent at painting.

Or I could extend my time in Basel by four or five years. Then I could just buy some original Rothkos and Klimts instead of trying to be the next Grandma Moses or some shit.

Fuck, I hate that I’m fucking thinking like that.

If I go, it has to be two years. No getting greedy.

Two years, and it’ll be over. That’s more than I can say about any other job.

It’s going to fucking suck no matter what, but that’s true of all my options now anyway.

Goddammit.

“What’s up, Ethan?”

Charles is hovering right in front of me, ignoring the giant crowd everywhere else in the bar.

“Isn’t it a busy Saturday?”

“They can wait, and we’ve got some other staff. Seeing your face right now, I think you could use someone to talk to more than you could use another shot.”

“You’re a good man, Charles, but it’s fine. And you’re too fucking busy for that, anyway.”

“I’ve got a minute. Sometimes a minute can help.”

Doing a quick scan of the room, I catch a glimpse of Stacia expertly pulling a pint at the bar before flitting back to waiting tables like some sort of magical sprite.

Maybe Charles does have a minute.

“I’m just weighing some options, that’s all.”

“Can I make an assumption”

I can’t stop myself from sighing heavily. “Sure.”

“They all suck, right?”

“Do you have to be psychic to work here or something?”

“No, but you do notice things. And I’ve been there…well, I don’t know exactly where you are, but I’ve got an idea. And…yeah, it sucks.”

“What idea’s that, Charles?”

“I don’t want to make any more assumptions…but yeah, it’s the fucking worst, and it hurts like hell, but it gets better.”

Yeah, but…

Maddie.

“I appreciate it, Charles. And, well, I don’t know.”

“I know it’s hard to believe right now, but believe me: you’re going to be fine. Of course you will. You’re Ethan fucking Barrett.”

Charles disappears right after his pep talk, and I’m left staring at my warming pint of stout.

At this point, it looks like Ethan fucking Barrett’s going to Basel fucking Switzerland.